Daisy
by DancingGrimm
Summary: Mycroft just happens to run into sombody he used to know...purely by chance, of course. Written for Gatissed, who won my story in the Happy Birthday Mark Gatiss fanwork auction.


Manja's story

The coffee shop was decidedly prosaic; a square of wooden floor scattered with self-consciously Bohemian odds and ends of furniture, bordered at the far end by a long, polished counter, the gleaming coffee machine sitting in state behind it.

A woman dressed in a white blouse and a dark blue apron stood at the machine, cleaning the brass carefully with a yellow duster. Her back was to the door but, as Mycroft noted immediately, she was keeping a keen eye on the front of the shop using the reflection in the metal. He smiled to himself and, possibly, felt just a little foolish for having worried about her losing her edge.

The only customers in the place at this time of day were a young man wearing headphones while working away at his laptop, and a woman standing at one of the tables trying to cram folders full of paperwork back into her briefcase while leaving sufficient space for the over-sized cookie she had just purchased. Careful not to draw either of their attention, Mycroft turned the open-closed sign on the door around, so they wouldn't be disturbed further, and approached the counter.

The woman behind the counter turned around as he was about halfway across the floor, and gave him a passive, blank-eyed smile. Nobody would ever suspect that she recognised him, that they had once known each other so very well. The plastic name tag on her apron said 'Daisy'.

"Good morning," she said, bland customer service tones firmly in place. "How may I help you?"

The female customer hadn't left yet. "I'd like a tea, please. What kinds do you have?"

He pretended to listen while she listed the decidedly ordinary range of teas, his attention on the business woman who finally packed up her case and left, and on the rhythmic noises from the young man's headphones which were certainly loud enough to prevent him from overhearing them.

As soon as the door closed behind the woman, Daisy glanced quickly at her one remaining customer and, smile never leaving her face, hissed "What are you doing here, you interfering limey fuck!?"

"As ever, you have a way with words," Mycroft replied, airily. "I merely came to check in on you, as a friend."

The smile slid off her face and she eyed him with suspicion. "A 'friend'? What exactly do you want?"

He waved the question away. "Nothing. I want nothing from you, I assure you. I merely heard tell of your presence here and thought I would pop by and see how life as a, ah, self employed contractor was treating you."

"That's a nice way of putting it," she snorted, crossing her arms.

"Now, there's no need to get defensive," Mycroft chided. "Do you really think I have any interest in this tawdry little criminal you've been employed to 'rub out'?"

She snorted again, but this time it was suppressed laughter. "You shouldn't venture into slang, you know. And I don't know if I'd call him tawdry. He's the fourth biggest drug trafficker in London."

"Seventh," Mycroft corrected. "However, if one of my little projects has borne fruit today, he may manage to rise to sixth place. Dead men's shoes, you know?"

Daisy rolled her eyes. "Always have to know everything, eh?"

"No, no. I simply have a gift for networking."

"Of course you do."

There was silence for a moment, stretching out between them as they stared at one another. The eye contact was not uncomfortable, but neither was it particularly friendly. They were weighing each other up, looking for the marks left by the years and the work, the changes each had gone through.

Daisy – and that was easily the least suitable name she'd ever gone by, to his knowledge – had aged subtly but significantly since he had last seen her. Her face had begun to soften, fine lines around her eyes and mouth, less sharpness to her jaw. However, she still had that lovely skin, the delicate pink-and-white English rose complexion that he had so admired when they first encountered one another.

He did not dwell on his days in active service, short and frustrating as they were, but the few events he did look back on with anything resembling nostalgia were those when he had had the opportunity to work with somebody from another agency. Particularly her. Every chance he got to see her, he took, petty as it had been. If the closest he ever came to romance for the full course of his life was the fling he had had with her - that sultry night in the MI6 safe-house in Puebla, that lost 27 hours on a drifting radio vessel in the Southern ocean, that rainy, stolen morning in the little attic flat in Mayfair – so be it. That was close enough to love for him, and if it was over…so be it.

"I'm sorry about your brother," she said softly, breaking the silence.

Mycroft lowered his head in what he had learned was a convincing display of emotional upset, paused just long enough, and murmured; "Thank you."

When he raised his head again, she was looking at him with undisguised curiosity, and for a moment he thought she might have suspected the truth about Sherlock. But no, it wasn't possible, of course. It wasn't like she had no other reasons for looking at him like that. The world thought Sherlock was dead and, despite her many exceptional qualities, she was still a part of that very world, a world that Mycroft remained on the outside of.

"What are you doing with yourself, then?" she asked. "No more field work, I take it. You've got a tad soft."

"I've been given a minor position in the British Government."

"Minor?"

"Fairly minor, though not inconsequential. I manage small matters pertaining to information and research."

"And you get driven around in a limo." Of course she would have noticed the limo in the reflection from the brass.

"That's not so very uncommon."

"And you wear a Saville Row suit that probably costs _more_ than the limo."

"I doubt that's accurate. It _was_ a Jaguar."

She grinned. "You liar, you're probably running this whole country in secret, aren't you. I bet you've got the Prime Minister in your pocket!"

"Hardly," Mycroft sniffed. "I wouldn't let that awful greasy man anywhere near this suit."

She laughed fully, then, letting out a yelp of sound before placing her hand over her mouth to muffle the rest. The gesture reminded Mycroft of…well. Intimacies.

"You cheeky bastard," she muttered, shaking her head. "I can't believe the stuff you can come out with and keep a straight face." She stared at him again, taking his appearance in properly this time, studying his face and his clothes and his hands where they rested on the handle of his umbrella. She couldn't see him the way he saw her, couldn't assess so well. He could see the evidence of the medical training she had been taking in the small wear marks on her hands, the cleverness with which she'd hidden herself from her former employers in the way she'd cut her hair, the tension brought on by her current occupation in her stance. She would look at him and see his thinning hair and his paunch and maybe evidence of the cigarette he'd given in to the previous evening. She wouldn't see so very much. But all the same, it was nice that she was paying attention.

"I think fondly of the times we spent together," he told her.

"Which times? The spying? The assassinations? The grand larceny?"

"No. The other ones."

"Well now, here's me thinking you're a gentleman and you go and bring that up." Her smile turned wicked. "I ought to put you over my knee."

Warmth sprang into Mycroft's face at the reminder, and he couldn't help but smile. She had always brought out what little playfulness there was in him. Extraordinary.

"It's very good to see you again," he said, honestly.

"Is it really? You don't sound sure."

He shrugged casually in the face of her penetrating stare. "Sometimes it's a pleasant change, to not be a mystery."

She laughed again at that, lightly, tossing her head back in a gesture that oddly made him think of John Watson.

"Do you ever think it could have worked out between us?" she asked with grin.

"Do you?"

"No. You're too fully formed. You've got yourself so well put together that there's no room for doubt, no room for weakness…no room for anybody else. I want a man who's a little ragged around the edges, you know? Somebody I can get some traction with."

"Well, that makes perfect sense," Mycroft agreed.

"Also, you're a knob."

"I see you're becoming quite accustomed to British idioms. Well done. That skill will be quite beneficial to you when you make your move here permanent."

She glanced across at the young man in the headphones – still oblivious – then placed her hands on the counter and leaned into Mycroft's personal space. "How do you know I've been planning to stay in England? Have you been watching me?"

"Of course I have!"

"Are you…Jesus, you aren't even going to bother lying about it?!"

"Oh come now," he demanded, spreading his hands. "A known wet-work specialist, off her own agency's grid for years, turns up in my city? Of course I've been watching you. You've been getting your new identity together and it claims you were born in _Solihull_."

She gawped at him. He rolled his eyes.

"Really though, the East Midlands? Why would anyone choose to be from there?"

"I…I moved to London for a more exciting life," she said, half recitation and half truth. She'd come here for something better. He found himself hoping that his city would not disappoint her.

"What name will you go by?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I was thinking…I don't have a surname picked out yet, but maybe Mary."

"That's quite nice. It would suit you."

"Thanks."

"Far better than Daisy."

"That wasn't strictly my idea."

"Of course."

Their eyes met again, and this time there was something a little less comfortable in it. Soon enough, they would live in the same city. They would need to trust each other, constantly, with so many of their secrets, even if they never crossed paths again. This was why Mycroft had always rather liked her, though; she made him want to be trustworthy, as impossible a goal as that was.

"Well, I'd best set off before your target arrives for his afternoon beverage."

"Caramel macciato," Daisy said.

"Ugh."

"I know. Thanks for dropping by. I won't be here for much longer."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I suspected his time might be coming to an end later today. Farewell."

He turned away, walked past the young man with his headphones still blasting away, and was reaching out a hand to turn the sign on the door back around, when a little idea popped into his head, as little ideas were sometimes wont to do.

He turned back towards her. "When you've settled into London a little," he said, "Perhaps I could introduce you to a friend of mine."

Her eyebrows quirked into a frown, even as she smiled. "You aren't trying to play Cupid, are you?"

"No…perhaps not. But you'd like him. He's a good man, but he's been through some hard times. They've left him…a little ragged around the edges. His name is John."

She snorted and tossed her head again, reassuring Mycroft that his theory was sound.

"You'd like him," he added. "When you're Mary, I'll see that your paths cross."

"You do that," she replied with a smile, a whole smile, just for him.

Mycroft left the coffee shop, holding the door open as he went for the sixth biggest drug trafficker in London, soon to be deceased.


End file.
